


As the Crow Flies

by AntiDiva



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-14 12:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11207904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiDiva/pseuds/AntiDiva
Summary: Liv is an old friend of Bobby's, and the boys, although they don’t remember. She's far from what you'd expect when you think of the kind of women that hang around hunters. Liv is delicate and fragile, by all accounts a “normal girl”. It's been years since Bobby has seen her when she unexpectedly shows up on his doorstep, looking for help. But, just how normal is she? And what could be so traumatic that it alters the very essence of her being? Takes place during S7, just after Cas becomes "God" and will continue from there on. Dean/OC





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I’ve posted. It’s definitely a work in progress. Of course, I own nothing but my OC, Liv. Feel free to review/follow or critique; I appreciate all feedback.

                “Someone’s coming up the driveway,” the lighter-haired man commented to his comrade, without looking up. He was bent over the front of a shiny, black, muscle car, his head hidden beneath the hood and his fingers covered in thick grease.

                “I’ve never seen that Jeep before. You?” The darker-haired man asked.

                The first man finally raised his head and watched with narrowed eyes, registering the approaching vehicle and the cloud of chalky, red dust it left in its wake. It was a beat up, old Jeep with cracks in the windshield and a shattered headlight.

                “Nah. Probably looking for parts. That hunk of junk looks like it could use some work. Hand me that lug wrench, Sammy.” Shorter than his companion, but by no means diminutive in height, he turned back to his own car. In stark contrast to the Jeep, which had pulled off to the side of the narrow, dirt driveway and was idling loudly in the otherwise quiet of the peaceful afternoon, the Impala was in mint condition. Shining in the late afternoon sunlight, it was a piece of art – perfectly waxed, the chrome polished until it sparkled like clean, clear glass. You couldn’t even admire it without shielding your eyes from the blinding glare.

                “I don’t know, Dean. She doesn’t look like much of a car person to me.” The taller man, Sammy, had watched the woman climb through the driver’s side door. She was so petite that she actually teetered on the edge of her seat before free-falling several inches to the ground. The crumbled dirt and gravel crunched beneath her small feet, barely protected by old, rugged, bohemian sandals. A small, brindle pit-bull with white markings on its’ feet, chest, and belly, no more than a puppy really, leapt out of the jeep and stood next to the woman with a goofy, open-mouthed grin plastered across its face. Its ears pricked up at the sight of the two men and, distracted by a piece of worn paper in her hand, the woman didn’t even notice when the dog bounded toward them. In fact, Sam was certain she hadn’t even noticed them standing there, barely twenty yards away from her.

                “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the shorter man shouted, backing away from the swiftly approaching dog, which appeared much larger while barreling toward them at full speed.

                The woman looked up, sharply, and let out a tired groan.

                “Molly, stop!” she yelled, hurrying toward them.

                Sam quickly saw that there was no danger in this unruly but affectionate canine and he knelt down to greet her. The dog, Molly, slammed into him with the full force of her twenty wiry pounds, a panting ball of energy that immediately began baptizing his face with her hot tongue. Sam laughed when Molly rolled onto her back and wriggled against his legs, sending clouds of dust all over his jeans and the side of the previously spotless black car. Behind him, Dean cursed loudly.

                Sam turned to face him and laughed even harder when he saw that his brother had literally backed up onto the hood of the car in a desperate attempt to escape Molly’s messy, but otherwise harmless, wrath.

                “Dean, what’re you doing? It’s just a puppy,” Sam said, demonstrating his point by vigorously rubbing the dog’s belly. Molly grinned up at him; her tongue lolled out the side of her mouth and left a widening puddle of drool in the dirt.

                “I know that,” Dean retorted, slowly inching his way off of the car.

                “I’m so sorry!” the woman cried out. She had finally caught up to the overzealous pit-bull and was frantically trying to grab onto its collar. “She’s usually really well behaved but we’ve been in the car for hours and she loves people; she just got excited. I’m really, really sorry!”

                Sam waved his hand, dismissively.

                “It’s totally fine,” he said, grinning broadly at the distraught woman. “Really, don’t worry. We love dogs; don’t we, Dean?”

                Dean nodded, clearly still wary. He visibly relaxed when the woman was finally able to snap a leash onto Molly’s pale, pink collar.

                The woman smiled hesitantly and tugged on the leash. It seemed, however, that Molly wasn’t interested in leaving Sam’s side quite yet. She settled down on the ground beside him and rested her head on his rather large shoe. He only laughed again and ruffled her ears before standing and extending his right hand toward the woman.

                “I’m Sam. Are you looking for parts?”

                She shook her head but accepted his hand, shaking it firmly. “No, actually I’m looking for Bobby Singer.” She looked up at him, craning her neck to maintain eye contact and shielding her eyes from the fading but still power sunlight. He was so tall and she so short that the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders.

                “You know Bobby?” Dean asked, stepping closer. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

                The woman shook his hand, as well, and nodded.

                “I’ve known Bobby my whole life, but I haven’t seen him in forever. Is he here?”

                Before either of them could answer, Bobby stepped out of a nearby garage, an uncharacteristically wide smile spreading across his face.

                “Livve? Livvie Tate, is that you?” he called.

                The woman squealed and ran toward him, dropping the leash which Sam bent down to collect though the dog continued to show no sign of moving. The brothers watched Bobby sweep up the woman in a great, bear hug. Her feet actually lifted off the ground as he swung her around.

                “Oh my god, no one has called me Livvie in years!” she exclaimed as he set her back down.

                “I guess it’s Olivia now, huh?” Bobby said.

                “Nope, just Liv,” she answered.

                “Alright then, just Liv,” he said, releasing her from the hug but holding onto one of her hands. “What the hell are you doing here, girl?” he asked.

                Liv’s smile disappeared, instantly.

                “It’s Dad, Bobby. I haven’t heard from him in six months.” She opened her mouth to continue but Dean cut off her words.

                “You said Tate? Is your dad Rick Tate?”

                She nodded, quickly. “Do you know him? Where he is?”

                Dean shook his head. “I know who he is but we’ve never met.”

                “Sure you have,” Bobby interjected. “You both have. You’ve met Liv here, too, back when she was still little Livvie. Must have been twenty five years ago, at least.”

                Sam squinted at the woman, looking her up and down. It was true; she did seem just barely familiar. Dressed in a long, floaty skirt with a paisley pattern of multiple colors and a simple, white tank top, she looked like she belonged in another decade, perhaps the 60’s. Even the long, dark hair that fell to her waist in tangled, natural waves would have looked right at home in the Woodstock community. Her pale skin was smooth and dusted with a spatter of dainty freckles. It was lightly weathered, as if a decent amount of time in the sun had finally made some impression on her fair complexion. He noticed a few tattoos, as well; one on her foot that looked like some kind of large bird, and another on her shoulder. It was partially concealed but it appeared to be a tree, with several more birds roosting in the branches.

                “We have?” Dean asked, and his eyebrows rose in question. Sam saw that Dean was giving the woman the same inspection and was coming to a similar conclusion; that they had met her was likely, but neither could remember from when or where.

                “Oh yeah, long time ago. You were just kids but you spent a summer here. Well, part of one, anyway. Your dads left the three of you here with me and went on a hunt, some coven out in Modesto.”

                Sam and Dean exchanged uncomfortable looks; Bobby rarely mentioned the real family business in front of strangers. Liv only smiled, accepting the information as truth without question, which they took to mean that she was accustomed to the line of work that Sam, Dean, and Bobby lived and breathed every day.

                “I remember,” she said suddenly, grinning. “You almost blew your hand off with a firecracker!” She pointed at Dean and burst into raucous laughter.

                Dean scowled but Sam and Bobby joined in. Sam watched her eyes twinkle and realized how infectious her laughter was.

                “Oh, yeah,” he agreed, turning to his brother. “You double-dared me to hold it ‘cause you were convinced it was a dud. When it sparked in your hand, you threw it at me and ran about a mile.” Sam continued to laugh, remembering the incident. His recollection of the girl was still shady, at best. He remembered someone being there, someone who was of little interest to his five year old self.

                Noticing Dean’s furrowed brow and offended expression, Liv coughed back her giggles, with extreme effort, and smiled at him apologetically.

                “I don’t remember much else,” she said. “I think we had fun, though.”

                Bobby nodded. “Like I said, you were just kids. You two stuck around another month but Liv left after two or three days. Tell me, kid, when was the last time you heard from him?” he asked, turning back to her.

                “Like I said, about six months ago. He called from a bar. He was a drunk.” Liv paused, frowning. “I hate it when he’s drunk.”

                “Well, he always was a dumbass,” Bobby grumbled. “Come on, let’s go inside and get some grub.”

* * *

 

                Two hours later, after a meal of Bobbly’s homemade, and surprisingly delicious, chili con carne, the four of them sat around a desk in the den. The room was dark, lit only by a small, kerosene lamp on the mantle. A large map of the Midwest was laid out in front of them. Molly snoozed softly from a nearby armchair, occasionally opening one eye to check on her people.

                Liv took a small, narrow nail from a jar and pressed it into the map, marking the location of the bar from which her father had last contacted her.

                “He was here. He forgot to block the number so it showed up on my cell phone. There’s a pay phone at this bar that matches the number. I called it back a few times but no one ever knew who I was talking about.”

                “Six months is a long time, Liv. Why would he be in the same place?” Dean asked. Liv just shrugged.

                “It’s the last place we know of. Did he say anything about the case?” Bobby asked.

                “No, nothing. I’m not even completely sure he was even _on_ a case, but it seems pretty likely.” Liv pulled a pair of dark-rimmed glasses out of her bag and slipped them on. With her right, index finger, she traced the route from the bar to Bobby’s home in Kansas. “It’s only 300 miles from here, give or take a few. I can’t believe he didn’t call you for help or anything, Bobby.”

                “What did I say before?” Bobby said, gruffly. “Rick was a good hunter in his prime but he’s always been a first class dumbass.”

                “Maybe he didn’t need help,” Sam offered.

                “Maybe,” Dean said. “But it’s pretty stupid to go into a hunt on your own without someone on the line for back up, or even telling anybody, even if you don’t need help. Hell, there’s two of us and we always check in with Bobby, no matter what. For all we know now, he could be-.”

                Bobby directed a swift kick at Dean’s shin, under the desk, and nodded toward Liv, who was oblivious to the slight commotion below and had paled at the implication of Dean’s words.

                “Fine. For all we know, he’s completely fine,” Dean finished, sounding falsely optimistic. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

* * *

 

                That first night at Bobby’s, Liv’s thoughts were consumed by images of her father. Was he hurt somewhere? Trapped? Sleeping off one hell of a bender? It wouldn’t be the first time. But he’d never gone so long without getting in touch and he’d promised her he never would.

In a fit of angry frustration, she picked up her cell phone and dialed his number. For the thousandth time, it went straight to voicemail, which was full and not accepting any new messages. Filled with her own messages, most likely. They had started off calm and inquisitive, asking where he was, when would she see him again, normal questions. They quickly shifted into hyperactive panic, though; she could sense that something wasn’t right. Eventually, her concern turned into red-hot anger. She cursed him for being so selfish, for subjecting her to a life of worry. Her final messages, the ones she left in the days just before his voicemail stopped cooperating, were simple pleas, begging him to call her, just to let her know he was alright even if he didn’t want to speak to her. No matter her approach, he never responded.

Cursing, she flung the phone away with more force than she’d intended, further angered by the tears that tumbled down her cheeks. It wasn’t fair. He was the worst kind of father; absent, alcoholic, destructive, yet he was still capable of eliciting such feelings of grief at the prospect of losing him.

A light tap on the door brought her to her senses. Dean stood in the doorway, bare except for a white towel that was wrapped around his narrow hips. His hair was still wet from the shower and he clutched a small, black revolver in his right hand, which he held below his waist.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his eyes shifting around the room. “Sounded like something fell.”

She brushed away the tears and nodded.

“Everything’s fine. I dropped my phone,” she finished, gesturing toward the cell phone that sat on the ground, beneath a fresh dent in the drywall.

“Dropped it. Okay,” he said before nodding and slipping away, pulling the door shut behind him.

Molly watched him leave, and then turned back to her mistress. Her eyes drooped and she let out a quiet woof before lowering her head.

* * *

 

                “Can’t you sleep in the garage?” Dean snarled. He rolled around uncomfortably on the makeshift bed he’d fashioned on the floor of Sam’s room. Bobby had insisted they give up the nicest spare bedroom, Dean’s room, which left Sam and Dean in the closet sized spare with one twin bed. After several tense rounds of rock, paper, scissors, Sam had settled onto the pancake thin mattress while Dean swore profusely from the cold, hard wood floor below.

                “Don’t be bitchy,” Sam answered, grinning despite the metal springs that threatened to puncture his flesh through the nearly useless mattress. “You’re being chivalrous.”

                “Chivalrous?” Dean said, incredulously. “What am I, a fucking knight?”

                “It’s the nice thing to do. She’s had a rough few months,” Sam said.

                “Easy for you to say, up there in a real damn bed. This floor smells like moldy ass.”

                “I doubt Bobby’s gotten around to spring cleaning this year,” Sam laughed. “Or any year, come to think of it.”

                “Did you see her tattoos?” Dean interrupted.

                “The birds on her shoulder?” Sam asked.

                “Yeah, and on her foot. What the hell are they supposed to mean?”

                “They were crows, I think.”

                “Okay, and?” Dean demanded.

                “Crows are harbingers of death,” Sam answered, grinning as he rolled over onto his side and pulled up the covers.

                “Great,” Dean muttered, sarcastically. He savagely punched his pillow and shifted onto his back, grimacing as the frigid cold of the floor seeped through the blankets he was lying on and confronted his flesh.

                Sam fell asleep almost instantly, his feet comically hanging several inches off the foot of the bed.

                A light breeze ruffled the lacy, yellow curtains, stained by years of age. As he drifted off, Dean could have sworn he felt the delicate brush of satiny, soft hair across his chest, and the unmistakable calling of crows outside the window.


	2. Chapter 2

“So why couldn’t Bobby come with us?” Dean asked.

Sam rolled his eyes, having answered the question several times already. “Because he’s got three hunters out, using him as backup. If he misses any of those calls, they’re all fucked,” he answered, returning his gaze to the large map spread across the dashboard of the Impala.

“This guy doesn’t even know us,” Dean grumbled.

“He knows Bobby. So, we say Bobby sent us and he’ll listen,” Sam said. “More importantly, he knows her.” He nodded toward the backseat, where Liv was snoring softly, her legs tucked up beneath the hem of her long, grey and white striped, jersey knit dress. Only her toes poked out, the nails painted black with small, silver sparkles embellishing the smooth polish.

“Doesn’t seem like he’s interested in talking to her. If he’s even alive,” Dean said, his gaze shifting from the road before them to the rearview mirror, where he had an excellent view of the sleeping woman.

He took in the sight of her delicate, smooth shoulders, the pout of her glossy lips, and the dark framed glasses that had slid down to the tip of her delicate nose. She was small, but not skinny. Her hips were wider than he normally preferred, but her waist was narrow and her bosom ample. Still, she wasn’t his type. For one thing, she’d packed more books than clothes and her taste in music was atrocious; she listened exclusively to the kind of hippy garbage that made him want to puke and, on top of that, he was pretty sure she hadn’t brushed her hair in the entire time she’d been in their company. In fact, at that particular moment, the long, dark mass of it was gathered into a tangled ball on the top of her head, looking like it could house any number of bugs or rodents. Dean could appreciate a natural beauty but come on… at least try a little, right? She didn’t even get her nails done. They were short and ragged and looked like the only manicuring they had ever received was administered by her teeth.

  
“Dude,” Sam said, staring at his brother. “Stop checking her out.”

“I’m not,” Dean growled. “She’s got her disgusting feet all over the backseat and she’s drooling on the leather.” He didn’t really mind the feet, they looked clean enough, but the drool was a genuine concern of his.

Sam chuckled. “I think it’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, well, at least she didn’t insist on bringing the damn dog,” Dean said, cringing at the thought of all that slobber tainting the interior of his baby.

“Give her a break, man. I don’t think she’s slept since she got to Bobby’s. Not to mention her dad’s been missing, in case you’d forgotten,” Sam said, folding up the map and tucking it into the glove compartment.

“Yeah, but, she smells like patchouli,” Dean whined.< /p>

“I like the smell of patchouli,” Sam interjected.

“And she listens to Joni Mitchell,” Dean continued.

“I like Joni Mitchell,” Sam said, his voice rising slightly.

“And she hates Metallica,” Dean finished, his tone implying that hating Metallica was a grave offense, an atrocity that he simply could never overlook.

“I hate Metallica,” Sam asserted, frowning.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Dean smirked at his brother. “I get it, now. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” Sam insisted. “I just feel bad for her. Remember when Dad was missing? It was pretty rough, and now she’s dealing with the same thing.”

“Ahh, come on, Sammy. I can dig it. She’s kind of wild but she’s definitely got some endearing qualities. All those books, right? I know how much you love books.” Dean’s grin widened and he wriggled his eyebrows up and down, suggestively. “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to let her fall for me. Might be tough but… I’ll do what I can, for you, bro.”

“You’re disgusting,” was Sam’s only response, but Dean saw the corners of his mouth turn up, ever so slightly.

“Who’s disgusting?” Liv asked, barely intelligible through the massive yawn she let out as she woke.

“My brother,” Sam said.

“Why?”

“Because he was born a chauvinistic narcissist,” he said, bluntly.

“Was he? I hadn’t noticed,” Liv said, laughing.

“Sam’s just being a dick because he’s jealous,” Dean said, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

“Jealous of what?” Liv asked, stretching her arms wide in the narrow space. Dean eyed her appreciatively, reasoning to himself that no harm ever came from looking; he hastily averted his gaze when he saw Sam watching him.

“My irresistible charm, of course,” Dean answered.

“Oh, right,” Liv said, vaguely. “I hadn’t noticed that, either.”

Sam snickered from the passenger seat but he quieted immediately when Dean shot him a murderous glare. In the back, Liv continued.

“Listen guys, I hate to interrupt but I gotta pee like, an hour ago.”

Dean groaned.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Do you think you can hold it another thirty minutes or so.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Do you wanna take that chance?” Liv asked, grinning.

Dean scowled and flipped on the turn signal. He took the first exit, pulling into a deserted rest stop.

Liv scrambled out of the car and hurried toward the restroom, her worn, leather sandals clutched in one hand. Dean watched her drop them on the ground just outside the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief when she slipped her feet into them. For a second, he’d really thought she might actually have gone into a public, rest stop bathroom with bare feet. He’d never have been able to let her back in the car. Disgusting, he thought, which reminded him of the drool. He leaned over the seat and, using the cuff of his long-sleeved denim shirt, wiped away the few drops. Sam just watched, amused.

“How soon do you think we’ll be able to get back to Bobby’s?” Dean asked, rubbing the sleeve of his shirt on his jeans and grimacing.

“Couple days, maybe a week, depending on how long it takes to find this guy,” Sam said. He glanced toward the bathroom and, seeing no one, he continued. “I’m pretty sure we’ll find him after checking the hospital. But I doubt he’ll be alive.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “You thinking morgue?”

“Or some record of a guy matching his description, dying there or showing up DOA. Might have to get in touch with the coroner. Either way, I don’t anticipate a happy, father-daughter reunion, do you?”

Dean sighed. “No. Bobby told me Rick’s gotten sloppy in the last few years. Drinking too much, needing backup more often for really simple cases. Probably should have retired a long time ago.”

Sam nudged Dean’s arm and nodded toward the bathroom from which Liv had just emerged. She was walking toward the car but, as they watched, she abruptly froze, distracted by something beside her. She stopped, mid-step, on the path and her posture stiffened. Sam turned to see what had caught her attention and saw a large, bulletin board, covered in leaflets and notifications. Some of them warned of fire hazards, others politely requested that visitors pick up after themselves. He could see a few missing persons fliers, though, and as she hurried toward the board, it appeared to be one of these with which she was so interested.

Liv stared at the flier for nearly a full minute before Sam and Dean climbed out of the car and started walking toward her. It was the echoing slam of the driver’s side door when Dean pushed it shut that broke her concentration.

In one swift motion, Liv pulled down the flier and ran toward them.

“He’s here, in this town,” she said, out of breath. “Look.”

The paper wasn’t seeking a missing person, as Sam had originally thought. It was trying to identify a found one. The photo was grainy and out of focus but even Sam and Dean, who had no memory of the man and had only seen one photograph, could recognize Rick Tate.

The three piled into the Impala and Sam pulled out the map, again. They were right about the hospital, if not his condition. Rick was being kept in St. Katherine’s Hospital, which serviced the entire surrounding area. Sam found it easily; it was only a few miles from the rest stop.

“It doesn’t say much,” Liv said. “Just that he was found fourteen miles from the hospital and was brought there right away. How can they not know who he is? Why wouldn’t he tell them to call me?” she demanded, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Maybe he doesn’t remember,” Sam suggested.

“Could be,” Dean said. “He could have amnesia. Maybe hexed or cursed. We’ve seen it before.”

“Or just a good, old-fashioned thump on the head,” Sam interrupted.

“Wouldn’t they check his ID, though?” Liv asked.

Dean chuckled. “You really don’t know much about hunting do you?”

Liv shook her head, her eyes wide.

“We don’t always carry ID in our pockets, just in case. A lot of us have criminal records and don’t want the police to know who we really are if we get picked up.”

“Or maybe he had multiples,” Sam added. “We carry seven or eight different identifications, depending on the case. They’d have a real tough time figuring out who he really is if they had a bunch of really good, fake IDs and nothing legitimate.”

Liv leaned back in her seat, her fingers gripping the paper like a vice. Her tears had given way and only anger remained.

“Why does he keep doing this?” she asked. “This is not how a father is supposed to act.”

The boys were both silent. Neither could think of a single thing to say in response. In truth, they both agreed with her a hundred percent.


End file.
